BY ROBERT CATTO
Some things never change; well, not much.
I know this place. I know its history. My own history is - quite literally - written into the walls.
Living as far away as I do, these visits are much more rare than they were when we spent our summers here, swimming in the lake many times per day, playing cards, reading books, stubbing our toes on the rocks, and messing around in boats.
It has evolved over the years, of course; new lines intersect with old, new timber replaces worn boards. But in essence, it's still the same place we grew up with.
The books on the shelves are mostly the same ones we read as kids; the ukulele still isn't quite in tune; but the enthusiastic strumming seems to get handed down from generation to generation - even if one of the strings is now, technically, fishing line.
We still come here regularly, whenever we can, to see family, to relax, and to celebrate. This year is no exception; we’ve just celebrated my parents' 60th anniversary, and tomorrow, my dad will be 85. There are letters from the Prime Minister, the Governor-General, and even the Queen to be opened, over a glass of champagne.
Another generation is here with us now, too - adding their names to the walls, and taking up the traditions of the cabin. Cards, books, boats, music - and Instagram.
Some things do change, after all.
